


Countdown to a Crescendo

by agentx13



Category: Captain America (Comics), Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, New Year's Eve, countdown soulmate, sharon carter month
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:28:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28456092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agentx13/pseuds/agentx13
Summary: It's hard not to imagine meeting your soulmate. And Sharon and Steve are no different. Due to meet each other at the stroke of midnight on New Year's Eve, they each imagine the different ways it could happen.It goes so, so much worse than anything they ever imagined.
Relationships: Sharon Carter/Steve Rogers
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21
Collections: Sharon Carter Month





	Countdown to a Crescendo

When Steve is born, there’s a murmuring about his soulmate timer.

“Looks like your son is going to live to a ripe old age,” one of the doctors tells Sarah, handing Steve over to her.

She coos over him for a moment. She has other things on her mind than his soulmate. But when she _does_ see the timer, she says, “That’s almost a hundred years from now!”

“Healthy little tyke,” the doctor says.

The doctor is wrong. Steve is sick most of his childhood. Sarah is left to care for him, but she’s often sick herself, and she can’t shake the sickness that prevents her from seeing him grow up.

She never gets to see him become healthy, or to marvel at how it happens.

She can never answer Steve’s questions about his timer, either. Why his is so far in the future when no one else’s is.

Steve can’t answer his own questions, either, though, because he realizes on the Valkyrie that he’s going to die before he gets the chance to meet his soulmate at all.

* * *

Sharon does the math on her timer when she’s eight years old. Then she does the math again. And again. She checks and double-checks throughout her elementary, middle, high school, and college years. But it never wavers, never changes.

From her research, she determines she’s going to meet her soulmate on New Years Eve, at the stroke of midnight.

She isn’t sure what to make of that. She isn’t much of a party person. Maybe, she thinks ruefully, she takes a burglar by surprise.

She isn’t due to meet him (or her, or them) until she’s almost 30. There’s not much she can do until then except focus on what she can control, so that’s what she does. She works hard, she trains, she gets hired by SHIELD, just like she’d always wanted. And she trains harder, because she doesn’t want anyone to ever think she’d ever slack off.

The news comes that Captain America has been found, and she gives it little thought. She needs to keep working. No distractions. And listening to people talk about him, listening to _how_ they talk about him, is distracting.

* * *

He blinks to life again, breaks through Fury’s test, and finds out he’s recently been found in the ice. Bringing down the plane had saved New York, but everything around him is changed.

The only thing that brightens his day is that his soulmate timer now has less than a year on it. He holds onto that through his time tracking down old friends and finding only obituaries. He holds onto that through fighting with the Avengers, wearing a terrible suit that makes him feel like a comic book threw up on him and going up against aliens with a group of people who are weirder than anyone he’s ever met.

He holds onto it while he’s living in the damn SHIELD bunker, packed in like a sardine. And what sort of person is he going to meet when his timer counts down to zero on New Years Eve? He’s been a fighter for so long. He’d like someone to settle down with who’s more interested in a white picket fence than a war. He doubts he’ll meet someone like that at the Trisk.

Still. He can’t live like this forever. He swears he’s going to move out into his own place by New Years.

* * *

Nick calls her into his office a couple days after Christmas. The greeting is short. He’s never been one to waste time. “How do you like your place?”

“I like it,” she says cautiously. “Why?”

“Would you recommend it to someone? With older sensibilities, say?”

She frowns at him. “Please don’t move into my apartment building, Nick. I like not seeing you everywhere.”

He laughs at that. “It isn’t for me.”

“Who, then?”

“You think I’m going to tell you after you told me you don’t like seeing me everywhere?”

She shrugs but can’t think of a compliment to make it up to him.

His smile says he knows what she’s trying to do, and that she’s failing. “I want you to look after the guy. You’ll know him when you see him.”

Her eyes narrow.

“That’s all for now,” he says.

Her eyes narrow some more.

He grins back.

She accepts defeat – _for now_ \- and leaves him alone. _For now._

* * *

Bobbi insists that she go to a New Years Eve party. Sharon doesn’t want to go, but Bobbi is having some sort of weird pseudo-relationship with someone whose name is Lance Hunter.

“What if you get married,” Sharon argues. “You’ll get divorced.”

“Such a romantic,” Bobbi says cheerfully, dragging her along.

“Your name would be Barbara _Hunter._ People would think you’re hunting yourself!”

“They wouldn’t. And we’re not going to get married.” She taps her forearm, where her timer says she has a couple months left. “You can do marriage things without being married, you sweet summer child.”

“Ugh,” Sharon says, because that’s the only argument she’s got left. She looks at her own timer and inhales. “Three hours until midnight.”

Bobbi looks at Sharon’s forearm. “I love spending New Years Eve with you,” she confesses. “It’s like my own private countdown clock.”

“You like my forearm, you should see _this._ ” Sharon holds up a single finger.

“Come on.” Bobbi drags her off the street and into a building, where there are somehow more people than outside.

“Ugh,” Sharon says again. She’s got three hours to go until she meets her soulmate. How specific is the timer, anyway? Is her soulmate supposed to be in front of her, or just in the same building? Because most of Washington, D.C. seems to be here, and she does _not_ want her soulmate to be most of Washington, D.C.

Someone shouts into her ear, and Bobbi pulls her away. Unfortunately, it’s into someone else’s beer cup.

The guy starts yelling at her, because why wouldn’t he, and she responds with her most withering, “Ugh.”

“Did you just ‘ugh’ me?” the guy demands, flabbergasted and offended.

“We’re not doing this,” Bobbi says, pulling her away _again._

* * *

Two hours to go. Sharon had never realized before what a wallflower she is, but she must be one, because one woman tried to use her shoulder as a table for her drink, and one guy thought she was a wall and leaned against her.

Meanwhile, Bobbi is on a couch, doing marriage-worthy things with a guy who looks like Bobbi might snap him in half by accident.

* * *

Two hours to go until midnight, and Steve is _just_ going to meet his deadline.

“You sure you don’t want to go to a party?” Fury says from the doorway. He’d tried to help Steve pack, but it wasn’t as if Steve had much.

“I’m sure,” Steve says. A quiet night in with his own space and room to breathe is exactly what the doctor ordered.

He frowns at the timer on his forearm. He should go for a walk soon. Unless he wants to risk his soulmate being a burglar. Or a pizza.

Fury glances at #3 across the hall. “I think your neighbor’s a nurse,” he says. “In case you need to help for your boo-boos.”

Steve gives him a wry smile. “Sure. Hey, since you technically helped me move…”

“By driving, you mean? Yes. Yes, I did help you move.”

“I’ll treat you to a beer,” Steve finishes. “But I’m kicking you by 11:45.”

“Don’t want to see the ball drop with me, huh?”

Steve holds up his forearm. “Don’t want to risk it.”

“Huh.” Fury looks at the timer, but instead of joking, he appears thoughtful. “All right, yeah. Done by 11:45.”

* * *

The party is a wash. And speaking of wash, it’s what she needs to do when she gets home. She heads out, and her cheap-ass heels (why spend money on something she wasn’t going to _use?_ ) break before she’s gone five blocks. She hangs her head but continues on. Maybe, if she’s very lucky, she can shower and change before she meets her soulmate. Because if she meets them like she is now, well… She hopes they like interesting people. Or that they assume people are interesting. Because she can’t say she looks impressive, or even good, but she _does_ look interesting.

She makes it home. Makes it into the shower. Makes it into some scrubs and carries her dirty clothes to the laundry downstairs. Five minutes to go, she thinks. As far as she can tell, everyone in the building is asleep. What if, she wonders, she’s got it all wrong, and her soulmate is the one who’s the mess, who doesn’t have their life together? Oh, crap. What if they’re _both_ messes?

On her way back to her apartment, she stops by the front door to the apartment building and sticks her head out the door. How does she live on the only street in D.C. with no one on it?

She heads up to her apartment. Turns the ball drop on TV, mostly because she knows nothing else will be on. No, that isn’t true. _After the Thin Man_ takes place on New Years, and if she knows AMC… yep. They have it on. Timed so that New Years happens at the same time in real life and in the film.

She watches for a couple minutes, then checks outside her door. Then her windows.

She looks at the timer on her skin. Taps it. Nothing changes but the second.

Why does she smell smoke?

She opens her door again, sniffing. Oh, no.

She looks at the timer, wondering if she’s doing something wrong here or if her soulmate might be an arsonist. She’s got less than a minute left.

But she can’t ignore a fire.

She gets moving.

The smell is coming from the laundry room. Where there’s also smoke.

How in God’s name has her washing machine caught fire.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” she says quickly, running over to pull the machine out from the wall. It’s kept close to the wall by a too-short cord. She looks around for a fire extinguisher, knowing that she only has so much time before the fire spreads. She crawls behind, ducking under the fire as she tries to unplug the machine. She can hear people somewhere in the distance yelling a countdown.

_Ten!_

The cord is hot to the touch, but she pulls.

_Nine!_

The cord is stuck. She hangs her head and pulls again.

_Eight!_

The cord finally comes loose.

_Seven!_

So does the water hose to the washing machine, spilling water all around her.

_Six!_

She lifts the hose and aims it at the back of the washing machine.

_Five!_

The water turns into a useless dribble.

_Four!_

She kicks the machine away from the wall.

_Three!_

She hears something on the stairs and turns.

_Two!_

And gets sprayed in the face by foam.

_One!_

She splutters and wipes her face.

_Happy New Year!_

She blinks at Steve Rogers. Out of the corner of her eye, she can see her soulmark blinking a bright blue.

He blinks back, still holding the fire extinguisher. His arm, too, is blinking bright blue.

“You all right?” he asks.

“My pride just died,” she admits. “If you see it lying around anywhere, let me know so I can give it a proper burial.”

He grins hesitantly and moves closer, offering her a hand.

She accepts, because it isn’t as if she can give him a worse impression than she already has. “Um. I don’t suppose you’re my soulmate?”

He holds their forearms together. They blink in unison.

She swallows. “I didn’t mean to look like this. I swear. I even showered.”

“Before you took on a fire?” His eyes are dancing, and not with mockery.

“Yeah.”

“Did you get burned?”

“Nope!” She sounds cheerful, if not insane. “Um. Correct me if I’m wrong. You’re Steve Rogers, right?”

That makes his eyes stop dancing. “Yeah. Hi.” He offers his hand to shake, and she’s weirdly pleased to see that it’s covered in a combination of machine grease and foam. Her hands are covered in worse. 

Oh, no. Her hands are covered in worse. She’s finally met her soulmate, and he’s Steve Rogers, and she has filthier hands than he does.

“Hi.” She gingerly shakes the hand, trying not to make it dirtier than it already is. “I’m Sharon Carter. You knew my great-aunt in the war.”

“ _Really,_ ” he says with renewed interest.

She gingerly picks her way to the stairs. She’s going to call the super in the morning. Early. When he’s hungover. And she’s going to talk very, very loudly. “Yep. Peggy Carter.”

“How is she?”

“Better than some people want her to be. She’ll be glad you’re back, too. For different rea-” She stops climbing the stairs and does a complete turnaround. “What are you doing here?”

“I smelled smoke.”

“You were just walking by…?”

“I live upstairs.”

Ugh. She turns and starts climbing again. “Jesus Christ.”

“Is that bad?”

“No, just- Did Nick Fury help you move in?”

“How do you know Fury?”

“He’s my boss.”

“Your boss.”

“My boss.”

She doesn’t hear anything behind her and stops again, turning to face him.

“Your boss,” he repeats.

“My. Boss. Yes. My boss. _My_ boss. My _boss._ Myboss. Myyyyyyy bosssssss. Does that help?”

Something in his jaw twitches. She’s not sure it’s a sign of amusement. She probably sounds insane, but in her defense, it’s been a hell of a night. “You’re not a nurse, by any chance?”

She throws her head back and laughs, spreading her arms out wide. “They don’t let me into _those_ kinds of hospitals.”

This time his lips twitch, and she knows for sure that it’s amusement. “Did Fury know? About your-” He taps his forearm. The blinking has faded, leaving clear skin in its wake. 

“Yep!” She belatedly catches his meaning. “Did he know yours?”

“Yeah.”

Sharon glances over her shoulder. “Want to kill him?”

“What? No!”

She grins. “I’m joking. I’ve just… had an awful night.”

“Meeting your soulmate makes for an awful night?”

She blinks at him. Then looks down at herself. Foam drips off the top of her head and plops on the wood of the hallway. “That would be the highlight of my evening. And it’s been a long evening.” She starts climbing again. “I swear I’m not usually like this.”

“I hope not,” he says, sounding suspiciously cheerful.

She glances at him as she sets her hand on the door. “Can we try again? Tomorrow, maybe? Afternoon?”

“Coffee,” he suggests.

“Sure.” She smiles and turns the knob, hoping she can extricate herself from this situation with some degree of grace. 

Her hand slips, the combination of grease and foam proving just as fatal here as it had downstairs. She tries a couple more times.

“Here,” he offers. “Allow me.”

He tries, and his hand slips, too. He frowns, tries with his other hand before she can protest.

“You know you’ll have to get into your own place, too,” she reminds him. “Don’t help me to spite yourself.”

“You want to come to my place to get cleaned up?”

“Open your door without breaking it,” she challenges.

He tries, and now that his hands have grease on them, has the same amount of success. He looks back at her, and she shrugs.

“I’ll climb the fire escape,” she offers. “Bust in through a window.”

He pulls off his shirt, wraps it around his hand, and opens his door. He steps aside and allows her to enter first.

She gives him plenty of space as she slips past him (who _looks_ like that?) and then stops short in his apartment. “Um. When are you moving in?”

“I already did. Bathroom’s through there. In case you want to get cleaned up.”

She shakes her head. “Got cleaning supplies?”

“You don’t want to shower?”

“Stop implying I need another shower,” she says, unable to hide her defensiveness. “And what, exactly, do you think I have to change into when I’m done showering? Because all my clothes are in my place, and soulmates or not, we just met.”

“Right.” He takes cleaning supplies from under the sink – from the look of it, things left behind by the previous owner – and heads back to the hall. He cleans her doorknob, cleans his hand, and opens it for her.

“Thanks,” she says shyly, slipping past him and wishing he’d put on a shirt before he did this. Who _looks_ like that?

She takes a breath. “Good night.”

“Good night.”

“Happy New Year!” But the door is already closed.

She shakes her head and hurries to shower. She changes into pajamas after – terribly old bottoms with rubber duckies and a terribly old top with “WAKE ME FOR COFFEE” in faded, curly writing. She grabs some of her own cleaning supplies and heads out. His doorknob is clean, and so are her footsteps down to the next landing, then the next, then the next.

He’s just finishing up in the laundry room, and he freezes when he spots her on the stairs. At least he’s put on a shirt.

“Great minds,” she greets him, holding up her pail. She frowns. She doesn’t need advanced training to know she isn’t what he expected in a soul mate. “Want to get coffee now?” she suggests. “I’ve got a coffee maker at my place.”

“Sure.” He doesn’t sound enthused, but she’ll take what she can get.

* * *

Steve is a moron. He’d thought there would be fireworks (technically, there had been, just not in the small laundry room), or music (same), or cheering (same). Instead, meeting Sharon is like an overture to a concert, a song that starts quiet and builds to a crescendo, promising better and better things to come.

Coffee lasts until after dawn, and they don’t part so much as fall asleep in her living room together. She helps him move into his place so that it actually looks lived in, but he spends so much time at her place that he ends up subletting his place and moving in with her within a couple months. Her place is like her, peaceful, bright, and cheerful, and he can feel it rubbing off on him at times.

It turns out not to bother him that she’s a SHIELD agent, either. She doesn’t care much for a white picket fence, but she says it’s more about the people than the place, and he realizes that she’s right about that.

And as for being an agent, well. She understands what he does and the toll it can take, and he can do the same for her. She’s supportive of other Avengers, too, and she’s soon one of the few people they trust to handle missions where they need someone directing them from afar. 

His soulmate is yet another thing his mother never got to see, but he thinks his mom would have liked her.

More importantly, _he_ likes her. He had to cross oceans and resign himself to death and wake up in a strange future and fight aliens to find her, and it was worth it. 

Every bit of hell he’s experienced, every bit of hell he continues to experience, coming home to her makes it worthwhile.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's an obligatory reminder that today is the last day to vote for next year's [Sharon Carter Month prompts.](https://docs.google.com/forms/d/1goHBjj2uGHsi5JVNTwyxcFecFHwsTkSPIbtbZKe7eQ0/edit) I'm already excited, and I might start working on these after I finish writing Marvel's Thirteen.
> 
> If there's anything in particular you want me to write, just leave me a message/comment! Several prompts this month came from other people, from Irene, to Khalidah, to Jackie, to Joshlyn, and more! Thank you to everyone who's prompted/pushed me with story ideas! Thanks to you, I was able to have a new fic for each day of Sharon Carter Month for the first time! Hopefully I'll be able to do it again next year!
> 
> This is the last full fic that I've got to offer for Sharon Carter Month! I've still got fics to update to bring them to a close, so I'll be updating individual chapters through January 13 (Coffee Shop AU). Thank you to EVERYONE who's read, commented, given a kudo, all of it. You have no idea how much it means to me!


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